


The House By Comsol Harbour

by Lene3161



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Based On A Short Story, Brothels, Child Abuse, Eventual Smut, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Magic, Marriage of Convenience, Minor Character Death, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lene3161/pseuds/Lene3161
Summary: Q had enough on his plate dealing with his mother, he did not need the stress of a wedding and murders added to it.
Relationships: James Bond/Q, Q & Safin, Q & Severine (James Bond), Q & his sisters
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For inspiration and warnings, check end notes of 1st chapter
> 
> Because I had the strangest thought that Safin and Q were old flames. This fic grew from that.

There was nothing outwardly remarkable about the house near Comsol Harbour. It was a large detached house, made of red brick with white trim. In accordance to its location, the air had a terrible piscine smell and the view was even worse: the sea was brown with industrial waste and dotted with boats. 

Anastasia, tall and striking with jet-black hair, skin the colour of ivory, and eyes blue as the sky was new to Ludenwic. She had won the bid for the house and paid the bank with a large purse full of coins and notes, her four small daughters sitting beside her in the banker’s office. Said banker eyed her with disdain throughout the whole transaction, having connected the dots after he observed how her children, though clearly hers, obviously had different fathers. But he took her money all the same.

She wasted no time in setting up shop. Her business was well-established within a week, and soon it was as though the house was always a brothel.

As time went by, Anastasia’s offspring and the workers of the house grew in number. They were auctioned off when they were fifteen—first Sévérine, then Rosalind, Parthena, Orpha, the twins Nairne and Nanette, and Maude.

Q, being male, wasn't sold. He was relegated to housekeeping: he scrubbed the steps and cooked their meals and cleaned their rooms—though Q actually did less than his mother thought he did as his father sent his own servants to help.

Amaryllis, the most beautiful of the sisters, wasn’t sold, held back for finer things.

Orpha ran away. Q had hoped to never see her again, but the world rudely disagreed.

* * *

Q loved going outside to do chores. It was a relief to get out from the house which was the site of his and his sisters' misery. Additionally, it got him away from the woman's gaze(Anastasia was never his mother). 

Q was the sharper-featured, more masculine edition of Anastasia, except for his eyes. Perhaps Anastasia would have been more lenient on him had he looked less like her. The daughters all had some version of their mother's allure, but none of them shared Q's striking resemblance to their mother. This seemed to cause the most offense—that the child she believed she couldn't sell so closely resembled her.

Aware of Anastasia's loathing, Q's sisters tried to prove to their mother that their brother could bump her earnings. Q had a feeling it was futile, but he'd gone along with the mad venture anyway. Taking their cue from Prince, the most popular molly among the sailors in the harbour, they'd dressed him in one of Amaryllis' discarded frocks, lined his eyes, and rouged his cheeks and lips. Anastasia had beaten him with a wooden clothes-hanger, the nearest thing she could get her hands on, before refusing to give the rest of her offspring any dinner for a week. Only Amaryllis was spared this treatment. 

Q had found solace in the people his father sent his way. Miss Eve Moneypenny taught him all the things she learned from her tutor until she finished her education and became a government clerk. Q suspected she was actually very high up in the hierarchy, but respected her wish to pretend she wasn't. Mister Michaels was the man his father sent to teach him about machines when he expressed an interest in them at eight years old. He'd quit when Q was twenty, saying he already taught Q all he knew. Commander James Bond was a relatively new addition to his _nursery staff_ , as the older man had called his father's people. He taught Q how to dress, facts about other countries he learned on his 'business trips', and the basics of various languages, from Gaulese to Xin Yu, for two years. Nomi took James' role after the Commander eloped with Doctor Swann a year ago. She had taught him smidges of magic to make his footsteps quieter and immobilize attackers, despite the fact that it was illegal for magical people who weren't at some point enrolled in one of the country's magical institutions to learn magic. She had even showed him how to pass safely through the magic alleys and shadowy places of Ludenwic. Her lessons encouraged Q to experiment on opening locked doors and control the fires in the house. Every little bit of knowledge was stored away, if not used immediately.

But the streets had been less welcoming in the past few months. Q could taste it in the air. Shadows seemed darker and deeper, the bustling sounds of day-to-day life more sinister. Q was never sure now of what he might find in his travels.

Q had found the first girl.

He'd gone to buy the week's coal, dragging the house's red tin wagon behind him. He was always the first customer of Wilson's Coal Yard on Monday mornings. The proprietor had accepted his handful of quarter-golds and copper pennies with a friendly nod, not bothering to send someone to oversee him loading the coal. A frequent habitué of Rosalind's, he was more than willing to overlook any possible indiscretions done by any member of the household. Q often took advantage of this fact to get himself extra fuel to burn in the kitchen range during winter nights.

He'd been brushing his overgrown hair from his eyes while approaching the gigantic coal scuttle. He rolled the metal lid open to find a face staring back at him. He recoiled away from the scuttle, dropping the lid and the handle of his wagon. Half-convinced it was a dream, he opened the scuttle and observed the bare body carelessly laid across a bed of coal, an expression of eternal bewilderment on the dead girl's face.

The Constable was terribly upset with Q and the employees of the yard because none of them could tell him who had done this thing, which was going to make his job difficult. He normally dealt with nothing more than petty crimes like theft and rowdy behaviour. He studiously ignored runaways, declaring they would return whenever hungry enough. He took bribes from the leaders of Ludenwic's seedy underbelly, who were excellent at self-regulation, a trait he appreciated. Corpses from criminal machinations tended to neatly disappear; he did not have to deal with them. This was something _new_ , and new things meant _danger_.

'I didn't see anyone,' Q repeated for the third time. 'I just found her.'

'And what, exactly, are you out doing so early on Monday morning?' the Constable stomped around Q, trying to look intimidating. Q had handled Anastasia daily, who was twice as formidable without even trying. It was like comparing the sun to a gas-lamp.

Q grimaced. 'Buying the coal for the house. Speaking of which, Madame Anastasia will be looking for me by now.'

At the mention of his employer's name, the Constable let him go.

There had been five murders since, or at least five who had been _found_. All bore the traces of spells. Q had seen two of them, but only from a distance as they were carried away. One from the fountain in the city square, one from Lady Iphigenia's mechanical mare, another on the feet of a statue of Saint Philomena, which commemorated the victims of a fire almost thirty years ago. Yet another on the steps of the city hall and the final one tied to the main mast of an airship belonging to the Antiphon Trading Company. The deceased was wrapped round the mast as if holding on for dear life.

The girls were all penniless orphans without any other family, and very, very beautiful, before death deprived them of that quality. Their beauty, or lack thereof, didn't matter when they laid lifeless on the cold metal tables of Ludenwic Mortuary, all wrapped in the finest black bombazine to prevent their enraged souls, having been bolstered by the spell residue on their bodies, getting out before the rites to calm them down were performed, all waiting for the funerals paid for by the city council. They may be penniless, nameless girls of no importance, but nothing strikes fear into the hearts of citizens like the idea of the restless dead.

The Viceroy had given the Constable more men and funding after the second victim was found. Unfortunately, the need to spend time in public houses to gather information also meant the under-constables fell prey to the lure of drink and flesh. Being of no help, the Viceroy had raged and ranted at the Constable, until he went around with his head sunk so low on his breast that his face was in danger of becoming one with his waistcoat.

Q had watched the Viceroy's performances with interest. The Viceroy was a man called Safin. He was in his early thirties, and had raven hair and soft brown eyes. He’d ousted his predecessor from office four months ago, bearing letters proving the former Viceroy's involvement in SPECTRE. He was passionate in his rage, and he looked splendid ranting at the Constable. Occasionally, Q would see his unguarded expressions, and he would be surprised at the way the Viceroy's face seemed as though it wasn't his own, but a mask set loosely atop another. Q always dismissed the strange sight and continued on his day, knowing his eyes deceived him.

* * *

Q smiled as he let the three men his father sent into the kitchen. Two of them wordlessly took up the cleaning supplies Q had already set out before going to clean the rooms used for business. The front steps, kitchen, and the women's quarters were Q's responsibility. The last one, a gruff old man with a beard Q had never met before, lingered in the kitchen.

He said ‘Ye best change intae something warmer, laddie. This winter's bin colder than ever. Th' rain isnae helping either.’

Q looked down on his worn shepherd’s smock and ragged boots, his smile fading. He wasn’t even wearing trousers as the laundress had lost his only pair. Thankfully, his smock reached down to mid-calf, which, combined with his knee-high boots, concealed his trouser-less state.

‘The woman refuses to replace my clothing as “they are still wearable”.’

The older man sighed. 'Dinnae ye hae any hot tea in this house tae drink? Ah ken th' Major's folk bring ye food. '

‘There is, but I can’t stay. I have to help organize Amaryllis’ marriage.’ Q glanced longingly at his thin pallet piled high with his sisters’ cast-off quilts. He’d shoved the mass of cloth and down away to give him room to cook on the range.

'Ye cannae deliver yer ma's letter alone in this weather, especially in those clothes,’ the man gave him a sharp look. ‘Look, hauld yer horses 'til we're dane. One o' us will come wi' ye. ’

‘I appreciate your concern, but I can handle walking to the Viceroy’s office on my own. I really must be going.’ Q put on his cloak and ran out the door.

In the beginning, Q had wondered why Anastasia sent him to deliver her missive to the Viceroy. He’d thought the woman was trying to advertise her wares, enticing Safin into visiting her house. It seemed logical enough, Safin had built kitchens providing food to the needy, and fixed ailing orphanages and poorhouses. Anastasia would obviously try to entice him to sample her product before he thought of clearing moral corruption and the like.

Safin had slit the envelope open and took out a perfumed piece of paper and a golden locket. The Viceroy had read the letter and said ‘Tell your employer I will consider this proposition,’ while observing Amaryllis’ portrait in the locket.

Q realized then that Anastasia wasn’t offering a brief dalliance with one of her girls—she was offering something more long-term. He’d gone home and relayed Safin’s message, wondering how Amaryllis would fare being married to the Viceroy. Anastasia’s lips had pulled into a wide, satisfied smile.

And so the letters continued. Q was made to traipse the streets of Ludunwic every other day for the first month of winter. The first week’s letters were Anastasia’s attempts to convince Safin that the drop in his social standing from marrying the daughter of a bawd was worth it for Amaryllis’s beauty and company. The rest of the letters discussed everything from Amaryllis’ dowry(a fortune of five-hundred thousand sovereigns) to wedding planning. 

Q despised this new addition to his duties. The liveried doormen sniffed at his worn clothes, the other bureaucrats eyed him in disdain, and he always heard the not-so-subtle whispers of ‘Boothroyd’s bastard’ whenever he entered the city hall. He’d seen his father on two of his trips, and the man always looked away and pretended he didn’t notice Q.

The contempt felt doubly worse today as Q stumbled through the city hall’s wide double doors. His smock had gone transparent from the rain and clung to him like a second skin. His boots left muddy footprints on the carpeted hallways, as he had no money for a cab. He took comfort in the fact that he wouldn't be cleaning manure from his boots. The Viceroy's campaign for mechanical horses and dirigibles for public transport had drastically reduced the amount of animal refuse on the streets.

Q had barely knocked on the door to the Viceroy’s office when Safin opened it and beckoned him inside. Shivering, Q fumbled about inside his satchel with numb fingers and withdrew Anastasia’s letter. Safin took it from him and put it on his desk with a nod of thanks. Q wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, thankful for the fire crackling merrily next to the Viceroy's desk.

‘Sit down, child.’ Safin said. He’d wiped his pen with a blue velvet pen wiper and was now observing Q.

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Take off that horrendous cloak and hang it over the fire screen, it’s dripping all over the carpet. And dry yourself by the fire—your lips are blue.’

‘I can’t, sir. I have to bring your reply home, and Madame will be furious at me for dawdling.’

‘Tell your employer I spent too long drafting a reply and kept you late. Now sit by the fireplace.’

Q obeyed with a murmured thank you. He hung his cloak, kneeled on the carpet and stretched the front of his smock towards the fire. Unknowingly, the action made the other side of his smock cling to his rear and back in a most indecent way, his worn drawers being too thin for its intended purpose of concealment.

Q was so absorbed in relishing the warmth of the fire that he missed the thoughtful way the Viceroy eyed his backside.

'Your name is Q, is it not?' Safin’s deep voice sounded right behind Q.

'Yes, sir,' Q replied, looking up at his future brother-in-law. He was holding a cup containing a steaming hot liquid in his hand.

'You have your sister's eyes. Do you share the same father?'

Q frowned. 'I suppose, sir. May I ask why you are asking about this?' Inwardly, he prayed the man wasn't going to ask about Boothroyd.

'I can't help but be curious: why does your mother treat one child so badly and cherish the other?'

'She could gain no income from me. Amaryllis, on the other hand, is the most beautiful of my sisters. My mother is determined that she would marry well.'

'I see. And what does your sister think of the match?'

'You shall have to ask her that yourself, sir.'

'Has she any lovers?'

'No, sir. Not at all.'

'Truly? No man she has ever made love to—‘

'If you doubt my sister's character,' Q rose to his feet, his face flushed in anger, 'you can damn well break off the engagement yourself, you pigeon-livered ratbag!’

Safin reached over and clapped Q's shoulder. 'My apologies. I only meant to ask if I would be destroying her happiness should I marry her.'

Q made no move to shrug off Safin’s hand. He was so rarely touched that the skin hunger made him soak up the contact instead of taking offense at Safin’s over-intimate gesture.

'Apology accepted,' Q said, long after when he should have replied even though he felt _Amaryllis_ was the one Safin needed to apologize to. Not that there was anything wrong with being promiscuous, but society at large looked down on such women and it was Q's job to protect his sister's honour, his beliefs be damned. 

‘What about you?’ The Viceroy asked unexpectedly.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Surely a handsome young man like you has many admirers.’ Safin smiled at him.

_‘Is he...? No, impossible—he’s engaged to Amaryllis.’_

‘Nobody, sir. Not a soul.’ Q studiously ignored the way the back of his neck heated up. The almost-affair with James was well and truly dead, it was time for him to stop moping over it. They were completely incompatible, at any rate.

Safin offered Q the cup he was holding. 'I had intended to give you the cocoa to warm you up, but given that I have offended you, perhaps you would take a splash of brandy with it, along with some cream?'

Q nodded, hoping he didn't look too greedy. A hot drink on a cold day, in front of a fireplace he didn't have to worry about keeping alight? A dream come true.

Safin moved to his chocolate service and poured cream out of a small silver jug. He stirred a liberal measure of the brandy in before giving the cup to Q and saying 'Drink up.'

Q hastily obeyed. The cocoa was warm, the cream to chocolate ratio perfect, and even his untrained palette could tell the brandy that stung his mouth and throat was of very good vintage.

Safin smiled at Q's eagerness. 'What do you think of the cocoa?' 

'It's excellent. But I think the brandy didn't agree with me.' Q blinked rapidly, trying to clear his sight. He swayed forward, and Safin held his arms to steady him. 

'It seems I went overboard with the brandy. You need to rest.' Safin's thumbs were rubbing soothing circles on Q's arms. 

'I can't, sir, I-'

'Surely your mother can spare you for an hour,' the Viceroy somehow had Q on his back atop the settee in his office. 

Q laid a hand on his forehead, trying to get his vision to stop swimming. He felt Safin take off his boots, and he knew no more.

Q woke up with Bond's name on his lips. With a start, he realized he was lying on his side, with his face half-buried in the butter-soft leather of Safin's office settee. What the hell kind of brandy did Safin give him? None of the stolen sips of alcohol from Anastasia's house effected him this much. Q tried to get up, but the sudden headache he got made him falter halfway through. He tumbled off the settee with a curse.

'Curious,' Safin said. 'Very curious indeed.'

Q could only give a moan of pain in response. Safin kneeled in front of him and helped him sit up. He cupped Q's jaw and held a purple glass bottle in front of his face. Q made no move to drink it, giving the bottle a suspicious glare.

'This is blue spoolwood extract. It works wonders on headaches. I promise you will be completely cured of your hangover.' He unstoppered the bottle and held it to Q's lips. Sighing, Q reached a hand to take the bottle but Safin tipped its contents into his mouth before he could. The extract tasted the way cold smelled. True to Safin's word, Q's headache was completely gone in seconds. It had the side effect of making him realize his thirst. 

Safin had anticipated his dry throat. He gave Q sips of water from an earthen cup, his thumb stroking Q's jaw all the while. Q knew he was blushing, but he wasn't sure what to do. It all depended on how Safin would respond if Q pulled away.

'The brandy is distilled from black-weed wine. It is very strong for those possessing magical blood, and somewhat weak to those who don't. I thought you had no magical ability whatsoever, and gave you what I would give a regular guest. Forgive me, I should have ascertained your power before giving you the brandy.' the Viceroy's thumb had assumed a quicker pace. Q flinched. Safin helped Q stand with an arm around his waist. 

Q ended up being far too close to Safin. For the first time in a year, when James kissed him and had him on his pallet thrice, he didn't know what to do. 

'What do you want from me?' Q asked, eyes on his boots.

'Well,' Safin tipped Q's chin up. He had a lopsided smile. It brought out his square jaws and the fine shape of his chin. 'I'd be very much obliged if you would marry me.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA the fic where I couldn't believe I had to google 'synonyms for butt' for while writing
> 
> WARNINGS: Q's sisters were given no choice but to become sex workers because their mother's a madame. Q isn't sold because he's a boy, but he still got the wrong idea about sex because of the toxic ideas his mother had. Orpha was given clients who were into heavy stuff as Anastasia thought her too ugly for anything else-she ran away but was killed. There is a scene where Safin drugged Q. Nothing sexual happened, he just wanted to interrogate Q.
> 
> The fic is based on By the Weeping Gate by Angela Slatter. It's her contribution to Fearie Tales, a collection of short stories written by various authors. Go check it out, though the Ash-Boy's writer sounds like a creep-thinks girls whoms reached menarche can do ‘all the duties expected of an adult’. The Silken Drum seems to have a stereotypical demure Asian lady, Garth Nix's story had a few unnecessary lines about the protag's bust and the timeworn 'this character is misdiagnosed as neurodivergent when she belongs to a different world/half an alien species', and one story has a male author projecting his view on men leering at women. 
> 
> I used bits of Victorian era terminology here-lover means an admirer, making love means flirting-their meanings had changed to what we think of nowadays. Pigeon-livered: cowardly; ratbag: general term of abuse. 
> 
> The monetary system is based on the Victorian era. The dowry I got from Consuelo Vanderbilt's wedding. Her dowry was $2.5 million, which was around £500 000 using the roughly $5:£1 in the Victorian era. 500 000 sovereigns=£500 000. At 5% interest, the highest return you can realistically get(there are exceptions, but most of the time investments promising get more than that is a scam) that amounts to £25 000 a year, of which 3% is taken in taxes, leaving £24 250 a year. Considering £50 a year is considered subsistence level for a working-class family by the late 1890s, and £100 is needed before considering employing 1 maid, this puts her among the top 1%.
> 
> And in case anyone wants Q and his sisters' ages  
> Sévérine-33  
> Rosalind-31  
> Parthena-29  
> Orpha-27  
> Q-25  
> Amaryllis-23  
> Nairne and Nanette-21  
> Maude-19


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mention of unplanned pregnancy and an abortion in the second part of the chapter.

Q's shoulders had gone progressively tenser as the brougham came closer to Anastasia's house. He burrowed deeper into Safin's sable-lined blue velvet coat, an eccentric choice of apparel for a man, which the older man had given him after he helped Q into the carriage like he was some kind of lady. Sensing his distress, Safin laid his kid-gloved palm atop Q's bare, callused hand. It was a gesture at once comforting and proprietary. 

'There is no need to be distressed,' Safin said. His gloves were tinted yellow by the gaslights of the streets. 'I'm sure your mother will be very understanding.'

'You don't know her, sir-I mean, Safin,' Q replied. 'She'll be _furious_.'

'I'll compensate the costs of your sister's trousseau and introduce her to eligible bachelors. Surely that would appease her.'

'It's not a matter of cost, but pride. She has been preparing Amaryllis for marriage ever since she was born, but you want her kitchen boy instead of her favourite. She'll accuse me of seducing you away.'

'If there was any seducing, it was my doing, not yours.' As if to prove his point, Safin brought Q's hand to his lips. 'If she still insists on treating you like a slavey, tell me. I refuse to let you become an enemy in the house.' He pulled Q into a long, hot kiss.

Flushed, Q said 'I understand now why ladies aren't allowed to get into closed carriages with their fiancés.'

Safin laughed.

The attic stretched the length of the house. It was populated by six narrow beds of pine, with soft mattresses and as many pillows and duvets as can be reasonably arranged in the sparse space. To one side of each bed stood a wardrobe made of the same pine as the beds, lightly lacquered, barely able to be closed for the wealth of attire stuffed within: day gowns, evening dresses, costumes for clients with particular tastes, tea gowns and peignoirs for those who prefer fewer hindrances to their endeavours. To the other side lay dressers stuffed with jewelry, combing jackets, hair decorations, silk stockings, drawers, petticoats, powders, paints, and perfumes.

There is a space, too, where bed, wardrobe and dresser no longer reside, but the marks of their feet were still visible. A gentle reminder of Orpha, who always talked of running away and one day did. A space haunted by the glances the other girls give it, and by the presence of one whom they now speak of rarely and then only in whispers for fear their mother might hear. A space filled with longing.

The wooden floors were covered with rugs of thickly woven silk—only shoeless feet may tread on these, so all the footwear for the ladies of Anastasia's establishment was kept in the room, which takes up half the tiny entry hall to the attic (the other half is a curtained-off bathroom), and was lined with shelves stashed with rows and rows of all manner of shoes: slippers, boots, heeled creations, sandals of gold and silver cloth, complex constructions of ribbons and bows that must be applied to the foot using an equally complex equation of order and folds to ensure the wearer could walk.

Against the back wall of the long room was the sacred space: one large bed with four posts, big enough to accommodate three adult men, and hung with thickly embroidered tapestries to cut out light when beauty sleep was a must. On either side of the bed rests a wardrobe, also tightly packed. To the left of this suite stood a dressing table, complete with a stool, cushioned lest the buttocks of the chosen one be bruised. On the tabletop, rows and reams and streams of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings sparkle like a tiny universe of stars carelessly strewn. And amongst this are pots and bottles of creams, face washes, bath salts, and an oil (expensive, rare) to make black hair shine like wet obsidian.

This was the space laid out for Anastasia's special darling, her most beautiful child, the loveliest of them all; the one, Anastasia believes, who most resembles _her_ , despite all evidence to the contrary.

Amaryllis' mane fell below her waist, tickling the tops of her thighs when she stood. Before she stopped wearing short skirts and started putting her hair up, Q, when he wasn't in the kitchen, spent hours washing it, rubbing oil into it, washing it once more, then brushing it, brushing it again until it glistened. 

Amaryllis had the same green eyes as Q, and in the company of men, her eyes were frequently cast down as Anastasia had taught her. Her skin is the colour of lilies with a marked sheen—again, Q used to spend many hours rubbing this skin with creams that contained tiny flecks of gold and silver. Amaryllis's face is the shape of a heart, her nose pert and straight and her mouth an inviting pink. She is secure in her position, in the knowledge that she's destined for something _more_. It does not make her unkind—most of the time.

She is Anastasia's gem, her pearl, her sole unspoiled child, as Anastasia had greater plans for her. Amaryllis remains untouched, a prize to go to the highest of the highs. And at the moment, having been ousted from her spot of eminence, she sat on her bed, watching her mother tend to her brother's hair. 

Anastasia yanked the silver-backed brush through Q's freshly washed waves, spreading Amaryllis' hair oil through the strands, heedless of the pained sounds unwillingly dragged from his lips.

'It's terrible, the state your mop is in,' she growled, but hurried to add 'but with enough care you'll soon have decent hair.' 

Q didn't respond. He forcefully unclenched his fists, splaying his hands over his towel-covered lap. Fishing about for a way to fill the silence of the attic (her offspring never laughed, talked, and _lived_ in her presence), Anastasia circled back to the question of Q's wardrobe, or lack thereof, for the third time in an hour.

'I'll bring you to the best tailors,' she declared, 'I'll get you silk underwear, of course, a suit lays best over silk. I shall have to get mostly blue suits, so you could match with your fiancé.' Only those who knew her well could see her rage in her grip on the brush.

'There's a dressing case to consider. I'll have to consult some books to decide which works best for a young gentleman. There's so much to prepare!' 

'Surely there isn't as much preparation needed for a groom's leaving the house, Mama?' Amaryllis said. Séveriné shot her a warning look. 

'Not as much as a bride,' Anastasia smiled at her daughter, 'but appearances have to be kept. Our darling Q must have all the best things, he's about to marry a very important man, after all!' She finished grooming Q's hair, and set the brush on his lap. She laid a hand (strangely square, greedy, ruthless—what might those hands not do?) on Q's shoulder, disregarding his flinch. 

'You've done this for Amaryllis before. I trust you know what to do. One of you,' she turned to face the female workers of the house, 'tell the milkman the usual order when the afternoon delivery comes. Amaryllis, come with me—we have much to discuss.' Her eyes swept over her workers, seeing paints applied to faces and perfumes and potions used on skin, before walking to the door, her favourite following her. She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors hung on either side of the doorway and paused, struck. Q wondered how many nights the woman spent in her dressing table, watching the years converge upon her skin and decay her beauty. Anastasia shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment, and left.

‘Saints, it was painful seeing her try to flatter you,’ Maude burst out once Amaryllis’ footsteps weren’t heard on the stairs.

‘Not half as painful as it was for her to act like she gives a damn about Q,’ Séveriné said, smirking.

‘I’m just glad she’s gone.’ Q slumped over, resting his head on the dressing table, before straightening up in alarm when he remembered the oil in his hair. Hehastily wiped the stain with the combing jacket Anastasia had wrapped around his shoulders.

‘Oh, stop fussing with the table, Q,’ Rosalind said. ‘I’m sure the mahogany can handle it.’

‘I’ll hold you to that when she garrottes me with Maude’s combing jacket.’

'Speaking of which: give it back, Q. That's my best combing jacket you're wearing.'

'He can't, Maude. He still has to brush his hair for another hour before washing the oil off.' Séveriné inclined her head to the dresser on her right. 'Use one of Parthena's instead.'

'Why don't you lend him one of your own, Séveriné?' Parthena mumbled. She was clearly preoccupied with something, her eyes staring off into the distance. Q frowned, taking in his sister's loose peignoir and uncorsetted body. Parthena preferred to be laced in, comparing her corset to armour. Could she be-

'How long have your courses stopped?' Séveriné asked, having deduced the cause of their sister's distress. Parthena sank down, hiding her face in her hands. She didn't cry. None of Anastasia's workers were allowed the luxury of tears, for they redden eyes, puff up faces, coarsen complexions and fill sinuses with unpleasant fluids; no one looks charming thus.

'You're always so careless,' Nanette sighed. 'Mother will make you keep this one, she said so last time.'

Holding on to his towel, Q crossed over to Parthena, kneeling next to her and murmuring soothing things. 

'Maybe,' she mumbled through her hands. 'Maybe it wouldn't be so bad? Mother had so many of us, after all.'

'And what life for it?' Nairne snarled. 'What life?'

Q frowned at her, before pulling Parthena up. It was a surprisingly difficult task when one was holding on to a towel with one hand to protect their modesty.

'Oh, just toss the damn thing away, Q,' Rosalind said. 'It's not as though we haven't seen it all before.'

'Multiple times, even,' Maude chimed in.

'I'd rather not. Hush, Parthena. We'll take care of it, I promise. Anastasia doesn't need to know.' 

'Maybe,' said Parthena, 'Maybe I could find Orpha?'

Parthena's expression of hope was like a knife to Q's heart. He wondered if his sisters suspected that he helped Orpha. 

'I could go to stay with her? Do you think, Q? Could we find her?'

'You can't. She won't be found unless she wants to be found.' Sévérine walked over to them, the train of her dress making a sibilant sound against the dress. She gave Parthena a small mother-of-pearl box. Its lid was open, showing that it was filled with things that shone—brooches of ruby, rings of amethyst, and loose gems. Sévérine's gifts from clients were a great deal more valuable than her sisters', as she was more well-known and had the time to build a base of faithful clients whose fortunes had grown.

'There's an airship called _Triumph_ parked in Arlington Bay. Show this,' she showed them a gold ring decorated with an emerald carved into a leaf, 'to the proprietor. He'll let the ship go without questions.'

'How long have you been planning this?' Q whispered, awestruck. 

'Ever since the old Viceroy put me on my knees and made use of my mouth.' Sévérine's lips twisted into a bitter smile. 'I planned on getting all of us away once Amaryllis was married, when Anastasia would be too busy in the big parlour receiving congratulations. But Orpha ran away and Q was the one who got engaged, and-' she gave a graceful shrug. 

'I don't-this is-oh, Sévérine!' Parthena threw her arms around their eldest sister. 

'Are you going to leave?' Rosalind asked. She was the one most attached to Parthena, having been the one to comfort her when her first client took more than she had been prepared to give. 

'Only if you all leave too,' Parthena replied. 

'We can't,' Nanette said, horrified. 

'Why not?' Parthena demanded. 

'We just _can't_.'

'Then I'm not leaving.'

'Parthena, if you want to run, do it now,' Sévérine hissed. 'It's almost four in the afternoon. The clients will come soon, and Anastasia's too busy drilling schemes into Amaryllis to notice one of us missing. You won't get this chance again.'

'We'll make up some lie about you ripping your stockings and staying behind, or something,' Maude added. 

'I'm not leaving unless all of us is in that airship,' Parthena snapped, her arms crossed defensively.

'It would be a tight fit, considering it was designed for two people.' Sévérine said. She sniffed at their bewildered gazes. 'Gargantuan monstrosities are available on today's market, but there were only two- and three-person airships when I began solidifying our escape. I just paid off the final instalment for the last airship.'

Q laughed. 'You're amazing, Sévérine.' 

'She can still run after Q's wedding day,' Nanette said, turning their attention back to the topic at hand. 'Mother hates Q, and I doubt she'd give us a day off like she planned to do for Amaryllis's wedding, but she would still stay in bed consoling herself at Amaryllis's lost opportunity, or making up new schemes. You can run away then, Parthena.' 

'The wedding's on the spring equinox,' Q reminded them. 'That's three months away. Can you keep your food down that long?' Parthena's nine pregnancies always gave her terrible morning sickness.

'You'll have to go to M for a tisane that relieves the pregnancy symptoms,' Sévérine told Q. 

'He can't. Mother will be beside him night and day, scrubbing away at his skin or tearing off his scalp,' Parthena argued. 'We'll have to bribe the milkman into getting it for us.'

'I'll do it,' Q said with grim determination. 'No one knows the magic alleys better than me. In fact, I'll do it now. Sévérine, we're the same height. You'll have to lend me one of your suits.'

'Mother will check up on you soon,' Rosalind said. 'We can't risk that.'

'I'll tell her he asked to sleep in my bed,' said Sévérine. 'She'll be avoiding Q so she won't give in to temptation and whip him for impertinence. Amaryllis will stay in her room and comfort her. They won't go in.'

'Good idea, Sévérine.' Q rummaged around inside her wardrobe, before pulling out a grey wool suit and a black bowler hat. He didn't bother finding a shirt or collar. 'Where's your suspenders?'

'Second dresser drawer, in the leftmost side under a red petticoat.' Sévérine gave the door a significant look. 'We'll have to go down. We can't drive away custom.'

The women trooped out of the attic with a chorus of 'good lucks'. Q waved at them, a cheerful grin on his face to hide his unease.

Q located the suspenders, squeezed his hair with the combing jacket to get rid of as much oil as he could, got dressed, and hurried outside; praying to every saint that he wouldn't be caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slavey meant a maid-of-all-work in the Victorian era. They're the lowest in the servant hierarchy, and earn £6-15.
> 
> Little girls wore short skirts which were lengthened as they grew older. The proper length varied through the years--in the 1890s-1900, the period this fic is roughly set, 'outside' skirts were 1-2 inches above the floor but inside dresses have trains.
> 
> Until WWI, when your hair was up and your skirts reached the floor, you'd be considered 'out': you were ready for marriage. Well-off girls had a ball to commemorate this.
> 
> Courses meant menstruation.
> 
> Shirt collars and cuffs at this time were detachable. They were starched stiff and changed regularly, while the shirt isn't. Attached collars got popular around 1920s and '30s.


	3. Chapter 3

Ludenwic was old. Parts of it were built during the times _before_ , when fae walked its soil and pixies pulled tricks on unsuspecting humans. When they left, their influence lingered. Some streets were impenetrable unless you said a word or kept a flame in your hand, others always seemed to switch places without rhyme or reason. Some were populated by taverns and public houses with no clocks, staffed by beautiful yet faceless men and women, with food and drink always in front of you with no demands that any transaction should occur. Time moved differently in these false establishments; you never knew until you got out if you spent ten years or ten minutes. Some never got out at all, preferring to waste away their entire lives in a place of joy and plenty.

Yet still others existed in a different plane, a shadowy half-existence where they didn't lead anywhere unless a user _made_ them so. It was one such mist-filled street that Q was traversing. He walked with his back straight, and he never once looked back, no matter how heavy the gazes following him were. A grand terrace of white stucco, such as one sees on the streets of Knightscross, appeared in front of him. It was there to make him step aside—or to make him stay.The curtains of the drawing room were pulled back, showing a family spending the evening together. The father was constructing a mechanical dog; behind him, eight girls and their mother were running, laughing, and playing together. A handsome blond was gesturing at him to come in. 

Q thought _I'm not interested_ very loudly, the way Nomi taught him, and walked through the house, which heeded his command and became as insubstantial as mist. He continued on, ignoring the frustrated hisses behind him. 

_'Q, whenever you need to go anywhere quickly, go to Saint Maurice's Road and slip between the teashop and boarding house. There's a fae street you can use.'_

_'Saints in Paradise, no. I've heard what happens when you step into those places.'_

_'The street isn't as dangerous as the others. It only shows your biggest wish once. All you need to do is make it lead where you want it to, and you'll arrive anywhere within five miles of Ludenwic in fifteen minutes. Here, I'll show you how to walk it.'_

_'Now remember: the most important thing is to never look back. The phantoms will take you away, and getting you back would be hell.'_

_'They're not actual fae, but impressions of them. They feed off of the leyline the street is on, but they also feed on kidnapped travellers. Don't give them any notice, or you'll be their next meal.'_

M's cottage appeared out of the mist. He didn't sprint to her doorstep as he wanted to; he continued on his steady pace and only allowed himself to slump in relief when he reached her doorstep. M opened the door before he knocked and ushered him in.

'Good afternoon, M,' he said as he ducked under a bunch of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

She nodded back at him. 'What do you need?'

'A tisane to suppress morning nausea, enough for three months.' M narrowed her eyes, but otherwise made no comment. 'And something to keep a man going in bed.'

'I gave Anastasia aphrodisiacs just a week ago.'

'It's not for her, it's for me.'

'Ah.' She looked him up and down. 'Trying to build enough capital to escape?'

'Something like that.' He was actually building capital to _stay_ escaped. 

'I commend your forethought, but a man like Safin can tell you've drugged yourself.'

'How did you-'

'The winds told me.'

Q scrubbed a hand over his face. 'What _don't_ they tell you?' he muttered, his cheeks burning.

M didn't reply. She turned to her workstation, crushing herbs from jars with her mortar and pestle. 'Go charge the wards around the house.'

When Anastasia sent Q for business supplies, M would ask for payment in coin. When he got necessities for himself or his sisters, he paid her in magical tasks. As a child who hadn't learned conscious control, it was in the form of menial tasks like carding wool or washing thread so the objects could absorb some of his latent magic. Now, she asked him to do more complicated things like keeping up her protections or fixing the enchantments on her mechanical birds. 

Q went to M's snow-covered garden. It was a sign of the power she radiated, that the atmosphere fed off her magic and did unusual things. He wrapped his bare hand around a fence post. The runes carved into the wood tugged at his magic, eager to feed. Q obeyed the tug, letting the wards siphon off his magic. He waited until the runes glowed a soft yellow to pull his hand away. The runes gave out a mournful sigh, but let Q go. 

Rubbing his numb hand, Q went back inside. M was molding crushed herbs into small blocks. 

'How long have I spent here?' Q asked. His sense of time never seemed to work in M's property.

'Half an hour.' M wrapped the blocks in paper and tied them together with twine. 'Boil a block in two cups of water. Drink half before going to bed, and drink another half first thing in the morning.'

'Thank you, M.'

Q found his eyes lingering on M's silver hair. He turned back and blurted out 'Does Anastasia ever come to you?'

M shook her head. 'Never. Although if ever there was a woman I thought would seek me out, it's her.'

'Why?'

'To fight off a woman's mortal enemy.' There was a dry irony in M's words.

'Time.' Q nodded. He hoped her vanity would always torture her till the end of her days. Abruptly, he remembered that he would soon have a husband who he would depend on for a living. In light of that revelation, Q began to understand Anastasia's anxiety.

'If ever I thought there was a woman who would want potions—if ever there was a woman I thought would seek a soul clock...'

'A soul clock?'

'It's an artifact that steals the life—the youth more particularly, and all that goes with it. Done right, it will heal the worst of wounds, or give you another lifetime.'

'And if it was done wrong?'

'I've never seen it done right.' M turned away. She would say no more. 'Go. You've spent forty minutes here.'

'Good night, M.' 

* * *

Q arrived with just enough time to tend to his hair and rewear Sévérine's suit before the workmen bearing crates arrived.

As it turned out, Q needn't have worried about Anastasia finding him not in the attic. He had been given the dubious honour of being her most eminent offspring, and was accordingly treated as such. She decreed that Amaryllis's grand suite were to be used by him for the night, before being taken away tomorrow and replaced with furniture he got to choose. 

Anastasia had brought Amaryllis to Symon's, a fashionable shopping emporia selling everything from homewares to ready-made clothing, to find a new bedroom suite for her daughter. She bought Amaryllis a rosewood bed and a dresser with a mirror, all elegantly ornamented with delicate scrollwork. One of her wardrobes was moved to Anastasia's room, while the other was laid in the space Orpha vacated along with her new furniture. She also bought Q a dozen nightshirts and four mahogany trunks. She even put an advertisement in several papers for a cook, three housemaids, and a ladies' maid, before arranging to have meals sent from Gunter's for the next three days.

All this she told Q while she dragged him to her room. She inspected his hair and declared his efforts satisfactory, before sitting him down and explaining his new timetable. He was to rise at eight and be ready for lessons by nine. Anastasia would teach him etiquette until midday, when they would have luncheon until one. She would then bring him shopping. They would have afternoon tea in a teashop at five, which would also act as a sort of exam in which he would display his manners and skill at being a host. After tea would be evening lessons until nine at Saint Melchior's School of Sorcery. Supper would be had at home, and Q was to go to sleep at eleven.

'I find your use of sorcery in keeping house admirably efficient,' Anastasia said, 'but you've risen above your station, and you will not practice those spells anymore.'

Heart hammering in his chest, Q said 'Madam, what made you think I used magic?'

'Use _s_ _orcery_ , not _magic_ ,' Anastasia snapped. 'Do you think me a fool? A house this size needs three maids to run, yet I never had to get additional servants to keep the house in working order.'

Q looked down at his teacup and resisted the urge to see if it contained enough liquid for him to drown himself. It was stupid of him, _s_ _tupid_ , to underestimate his employer. Of course she noticed—this was the woman who was wily enough at thirteen to talk a family friend to put her up in her finishing school and became mistress to a flourishing industrialist at nineteen; who robbed said industrialist's home safe and walked away with Sévérine and enough magical knowledge to evade the constables hunting her down, who Saw Amaryllis's future to help a wealthy and powerful man reach greater heights in magic than anyone had ever imagined. She may be self-absorbed enough to never bother going into the kitchen, but she wasn't _stupid_.

'Now,' Anastasia waved her hand and three books floated to her from her bookshelf, 'I know you listened in when I quizzed Amaryllis while you brushed her hair. We will have a spoken exam to see how much of it you remember.' She gave him a piece of paper and a pencil from her writing box, opened _Browning's Collection of Exercises, Vol I_ , and said 'Question 1: when 3X + 9=90, how much is X?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mealtimes in 1900 according to foodtimeline.org: Early morning 8AM (tea, bread and butter in bedroom, brought on tea tray by servant); Breakfast(in dining or breakfast room) 8-8:30AM; Luncheon Midday; Afternoon tea 5PM, Dinner 7:30-8PM


	4. Chapter 4

Q found pretending Anastasia was a phantom made it a great deal easier to handle eating in front of her. It was difficult enough eating while fearing spillage on the borrowed dressing gown he had on without her scrutinising his every move. He'd been scolded for knocking over the egg cup while cracking his boiled egg, and taking a big gulp of tea instead of a small sip. He bit into a sausage, careful not to scarf it down like he usually did. To his horror, a geyser of grease shot out of the sausage and hit Anastasia square on the shoulder of her wrapper. 

Amaryllis froze in the act of drinking her tea. Q flinched back from the table. Anastasia turned purple. She opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again. Seconds ticked by as she struggled against the habit of beating Q. Finally, she reached for the napkin spread over her lap and dabbed at the grease stain. Her other hand was curled into a fist. 

'You're sitting too far again,' Anastasia said to her only son. 'And don't lounge. When eating sausages, cut it into bite-sized pieces first.'

Q could only give a jerky nod, having been rendered speechless with fear. He dragged the chair closer and washed down the bite of sausage with tea. He had lost his appetite, but a childhood of deprivation led to him mechanically shovelling food into his mouth.

Anastasia pursed her lips at his trembling hands and blank stare. 'Q,' she began, 'go to the attic. You're in no fit state to be in anyone's presence. Today's morning lesson will be cancelled. I expect you to be here at one. You're dismissed.'

Shakily, Q got up, gave her a bow, and stumbled not to the attic, but downstairs.

The kitchen was cold, dark and damp. Q spent an inordinate amount of time just standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching the doorjamb and getting himself under control. His green eyes swept over the room he spent nine-tenths of his life in. The fire in the range hadn't been lighted and no water was in the range boiler. Being in the kitchen brought Q a level of comfort he could scarcely imagine. He ran his hand over the smuts on the surface of coal-powered range. He didn't miss the work, certainly; being a servant-of-all-work was a job he was too happy to cast off, even with the help his father supplied. What he wanted was the routine and the certainty it brought. The rules were laid out clearly then: do this and that well, obey Anastasia, and everything would be alright. Now, the rules were different, and he was left floundering.

He thought back to his old schedule: wake up at six, wash up, take in the milk, light the range, get the stockpot going, deal with the tradesmen or laundress, fetch the post, make himself a cold breakfast, clean the steps, go upstairs and put food in the work bedrooms for his sisters to eat between clients, cook his dinner and the breakfast for the ladies upstairs. Load the breakfast and the post on the dumbwaiters, wash up the cooking things, let his helpers in, sort out the linens and undergarments in the laundry chute, and then study with his friends. Sometimes he was obliged to leave a note on the kitchen table telling his teachers he had to go out on an errand. They always left him a sandwich or a sweet with another book or some extra work. Once tea time came around, his lessons for the day were finished, and he sent afternoon tea for Anastasia and her daughter to Anastasia's room by dumbwaiter. He then went upstairs to clean the attic. Once he was done with the attic, to Anastasia's room he went for its daily cleaning. He had just enough time to cook Amaryllis and Anastasia a simple but hearty dinner to send up, before eating his own supper scrounged up from whatever the privileged duo upstairs ate, washing up the pans and cutlery and the range, sweeping and mopping the kitchen, and clean himself up before crawling into bed at midnight. He wasn't ashamed to say he sometimes cried from exhaustion. 

Saints, was he lucky that his father sent him help. Not to mention Q's own latent magic—he never got sick and never suffered the stunted growth of overwork; and the house never got infestations of bedbugs or any other kind of vermin.

He passed through the miserable passageway off the kitchen that led to the scullery, storerooms and water closet. Was it really only yesterday he stripped naked, shivering, washing himself with ice-cold water from the scullery tap? Did he scrub the front steps and go about in a country labourer's clothes? Today's experience of a delivered breakfast heated by Anastasia's magic and expensive Earl Grey was surreal beyond imagination. Q wrapped Sévérine's dressing gown tighter around himself. He felt restless, standing there in the kitchen with nothing to do. 

Q made his way to the creaky wooden cupboard where his projects and books were hidden. _Primer on Engineering by James Mockett_ , Polly Gates's _Children's Tales_ , a metal tub filled with parts, a worn pencil box, and a toolbox was in the bottom shelf. The second shelf contained his blueprints and textbooks used by the Royal Institute of Engineering. The third shelf held the watercolour portraits of him his old boyfriend made and Q's own creations: a small wind-up cat, a music box, a tiny steam-powered bird he never managed to give flight, an assortment of weaponised pens and a small leather box. Q tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. 

Suddenly struck by rage, he slammed the cupboard shut. Always, when he thought he was finally over James's departure, it taunted him with all his old hopes. Q took out the leather box, which was lined with green velvet and had indents for two watches. There was also a soot-stained card. He used to have the two watches given to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday, but they were gone now. Q read the card, even though he had long since memorised the words. 

_So you can match with your husband one day. Love, Father_

Q had tinkered with one of them, installing explosives in it. He had showed both watches to James after the night they had, and gave him the exploding one. James had smiled, before going on his 'trip'. Q had been over the moon for days, thinking James had accepted his silent declaration. He'd tried to kiss him when the older man had returned, but he only laughed Q off and asked for the second watch to replace the old one. For reasons he didn't care to examine, Q gave him what he wanted. He spent the next two weeks bawling his eyes out before Miss Moneypenny dug herself out of the SPECTRE-caused bureaucratic landslide and visited him.

_'The nerve of that man!' she hissed once she got the full story out of Q. She scoffed when he suggested that James didn't know what the watch meant. 'He's a spy, he knew damn well what it meant.'_

Sighing, Q returned the note back to its place and put the box back in the cupboard. He needed to find another hiding place for his things—bringing them upstairs was out of the question. He shuddered when he imagined the fit Anastasia would throw over the less innocent portraits Benedict Ramsbottom made. He needed to discuss this with Eve. Nomi would question him about Ramsbottom, and he simply wasn't ready for that yet. Eve would be curious, but she knew Q well enough to guess it was a painful subject and not to press. Q checked the calendar in the kitchen. Eve had returned from her 'holiday post' two days ago. Q never believed in the saints, but just this once he wondered if Saint Cajetan had decided to give him his favour. Q took off Sévérine's dressing gown and hung it up on one of the hooks nailed to the side door. He rummaged in his old bedding, looking for serviceable quilts to replace his old cloak which Anastasia had thrown away. It was his usual method of bundling up, but Anastasia had forbidden it for his deliveries to the city hall. 

He picked out a dark green quilt that belonged to Rosalind. He checked the time on the kitchen clock. He still had two hours before Anastasia expected him. With magic, he could be at Eve's and back with just enough time to get rid of the soot from his trip outside. Smiling, Q took a matchbox from a kitchen cabinet and went outside.

Q turned right, leaving Priory Road and entering Wingate Lanes. The people of Priory Road had looked at him in distaste, taking him to be a beggar or madman in their midst. The people of Wingate Lanes barely gave him a glance. Q carefully negotiated the ordure-strewn cobblestones, wrinkling his nose at the stench. He turned a corner at the end of the street. It opened up into a crossroads that led nowhere, only a blank white space. The emptiness was a sham. A magical fire was needed to cast light on what was hidden.

Q struck a match before cupping his hand and holding the fire in his palm. As with physics, magic had rules. You couldn't make something out of nothing. Stories of great sorcerers blasting fire out of their hands with magic as the source were pure fiction. He fed the fire with his magic until it was the size of his fist and glowed an eerie green. He held it up. A signpost revealed itself in front of him. Walcot Place, Beddoes View, Orpington Way... Eve lived on Prescelly Grove. There! He turned to the direction the sign pointed. The green light of his fire showed a street where there was previously nothing. Q had just taken his first step forward when a sack went over his head and his hands were restrained.

Cursing, Q kicked at his captor, but he was knocked off his feet and his ankles were bound together. Q tried to free his hands, but his bonds held strong. He began panicking in earnest. The spells Nomi taught him all needed a line of sight. His restrained hands prevented any kind of magic. He was helpless against his attacker. 

Q was hefted up and slung over someone's shoulder. He tried his best to toss himself off. His attacker sighed in annoyance. Q felt a hand press on his burlap-covered face, and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Victorian and Edwardian general servant had a hard life. Just reading Q's to do list makes me tired. Not to mention 19th-early 20th century housekeeping is more labour intensive than today. There were gaslights to clean, as they leave dark marks on their glass coverings. Dust and ash from coal fires were everywhere, and elbow grease is the most effective cleaner as modern cleaners weren't invented yet. Fireplaces need to be swept out and the grates polished, coal scuttles refilled and mantelpieces wiped. Coal fired ranges can take 30 minutes to get a steady fire going. Q is actually lucky laundry is sent out; old timey soap only worked in hot water and he'd have to scrub in boiling water to clean the linens. He also didn't have to brush his sisters' clothes or lay down their dressing gowns and gloves, something parlour maids or footmen had to do.
> 
> Mattresses were mostly organic material, like down, horsehair or wool, and cleaning it is difficult. Spring ones are available, but uncomfortable and most still needed organic mattresses atop it. It was only until the 1930s that spring mattresses took off. Imagine having to turn and shake mattresses every day to prevent lumps, and check for bedbugs once a week. When found, the bed must be sprinkled with flea powder, and the frame taken apart if it is wooden. If infestation is out of control, sulfur is burned for disinfection. This is why metal bedsteads were popular during the second half of the 19th century.
> 
> Monday was the traditional wash day. Ingredients used to be sent to wealthy homes. Errand boys come and note down the orders, fetch the food and return with it. The housekeeper will write the order and price in an inventory book. The food is paid for quarterly. This is called settling the accounts.
> 
> Dinner means the heaviest meal of the day. There isn't an evening connotation like today. Having a late dinner is considered a status symbol as it means you can afford the lighting needed.


	5. Chapter 5

James inhaled, letting the smoke of the cigarette fill his lungs. It was a new brand he picked up on a whim. It was the most wonderful cigarette he had ever tasted – the mildest and sweetest of Ülke tobacco in a slim long oval tube with an elegant gold crescent. It was his seventy-eightth cigarette and it was barely teatime. He used to smoke sixty and seventy a day. Now, he usually smoked at least eighty.

Madeleine scowled behind her teacup. Her hands were almost as pale as the porcelain, and the warm afternoon sun rendered her hair as golden as the gilt decorating the cup. James ignored it. He had long since stopped caring about her opinion. Saints, how did it come to this?

'I don't think this is working anymore, James.' She set her teacup down. 

'Really? What made you say that?' 

'Don't you start.' Madeleine adjusted her tea gown. The pale sea green and the white lace of her gown brought out the blue of her eyes. 'I'm not happy about this either.' For a moment, her stern demeanour melted away, and a melancholy slump overtook her. Just as quickly, her dismal air was replaced by the former flinty exterior. James knew he would never see any other side of her ever again.

James took a sip of his coffee. The flap of wings made him turn his attention to the balcony. A pure white dove landed on the balustrade and started pecking at the stone. It was obviously a pet—its colouring and the painted coat of arms on its back was a dead giveaway. Unbidden, thoughts of Q sprang up in his mind.

He brushed it aside. The endearment had been a mistake, a momentary aberration. It didn't mean anything. There were more important things at hand.

'What do you want me to do about it, Madeleine?' 

Her fingers clenched around her teacup. Her lips parted, ready to spew vitriol. For a second, James wondered if she would toss the hot tea into his face. She forcefully relaxed her grip, laying her hands on her lap, tucking her anger in behind manners and acting the prim and proper hostess.

James hated it, hated that she would act so stiff and distant from him, hated that the future he envisaged ended with this.

'You need to leave.' She didn't say another word. She didn't need to, she knew he would understand.

James drained his coffee and went to their bedroom. It only took him a quarter of an hour to pack everything into his leather suitcase and dressing case. Collect nothing, leave no trace of you behind; that was one of the unofficial mottoes of Six. How did he not notice he still acted like an agent and not a man living with his wife?

He allowed himself one last glimpse of Madeleine through the Gaulese doors that led to the balcony. She was staring unseeingly into her teacup as though she was trying to See the answers of the universe in it. 

James left her. He walked out of the flat, took the lift to the ground floor, stowed his things away in the train station, walked to the first public house he saw and got blind drunk.

* * *

The temporary holding cells in Ludenwic Police Headquarters was cold, damp, and grey. The cells were packed to overflowing with criminals, suspects, and vermin. Most were restrained with iron and blindfolded. Q picked at the cuffs around his wrists. Shivering, he burrowed deeper into his corner, cursing the under-constable for taking his matches and quilt away. One of his cellmates snored in his sleep. Another rattled the bars of their cell, hissing curses in a cultured voice. The last two were Éireannach, and they seemed to be playing what sounded like rock-paper-scissors for lack of anything better to do. 

'What are they trying to pin on you, boy?' The owner of the cultured voice said. 

Not sure if he was the one being spoken to, Q kept silent. 

'Your eyes are the ones being obstructed, not your ears. I heard you saying to the under-constable he needn't bother blindfolding you. Answer me.' From now on, Q would call him Smarmy Bastard.

'I don't quite understand it myself,' Q replied.

'I've 'eard the Constable's desperate and nabs people off the street. Is that what 'appened to yer, Mister?' One of the Éireannach said.

' 'e's no mister, Maghnus. Look at 'is 'ands. Ten to one 'e's a labourer turned geebag and fakin' his accent.' Said the second Éireannach.

' 'e probably sailed or have pugilism classes or somethin'-'

'I'm not a geebag,' Q snapped. He didn't want rumours of that kind to spread. It was difficult enough when people made assumptions because of his workplace, he shuddered to think of what Safin's many detractors would say come the wedding day. 'I was walking about in a magic street minding my own business when I was dragged here!'

'Then why ye 'alf-naked?' challenged the second Éireannach.

'I snuck out. I had to meet my friend.' Q winced at the childishness of his answer.

'Curse this enchanted blindfold.' There was some shuffling sounds. 'I will demand compensation for this unpleasantness, and I suggest you do the same, Mister-?'

'Nobody. I won't ask anything, they'll never give me the time of day.'

'You're obviously of gran' birth-' Maghnus said, but he was interrupted by the second Éireannach's loud, incredulous snort. 'Shut yer bake, Coghlan. Why wouldn't they pay up?' Maghnus asked incredulously.

'What "man of gran' birth" will go out in 'is nightclothes?' Coghlan muttered.

'It's complicated.'

The sound of arguing and angry footsteps prevented any more questions. Q straightened when he heard Safin's voice. He seemed to be yelling at the Constable. There was the sound of the door banging open along with more loud, strident words. 

'Get him out of that cell!' he thundered.

'But sir-' Safin interrupted the Constable's nasal whinging with a 'Do as I say.' Safin's voice had gone dangerously soft. The Constable sighed and walked to Q's cell. The cell door was opened, his cellmates were pushed aside, and Q was dragged out.

He felt gentle fingers remove his blindfold. Q blushed when he saw Safin's worried face inches from his own.

'I must say, sir,' the Constable said pompously as Safin unlocked Q's restraints, 'this is highly irregular. He's a suspect, and it would be very bad form to release him without following proper procedure.'

'I'll be damned, yer man really is a gentleman.' Coghlan said. Rubbing his wrists, Q took in his cellmates' appearance for the first time. Coghlan was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with an olive complexion. Maghnus was blond with blue eyes. Both were wearing good quality but off-the-peg suits. Smarmy Bastard was a sunburned strawberry blond missing his suit jacket and waistcoat. His trousers were exquisitely fitted but mud-stained. The snoring cellmate was a sailor, judging by his tan and the anchor tattoo on his arm. There were bruises on his knuckles.

'Constable, out of all the "suspects" you apprehended, nine out of ten were perfectly innocent citizens going about their daily business. I have no doubt that this is the case with Mister Q and the other men in that cell.'

The Constable opened his mouth to protest. Safin didn't give him a chance to. He turned to Q and asked 'Where did you use sorcery, Mister Q, and what spell did you use?'

'I was turning the corner on Wingate Lanes, and I used a magic flame to see the the signpost and find the way to Prescelly Grove.'

'What business does a servant like you have in such a genteel area?' the Constable demanded. Q could hear Maghnus and Coghlan make sounds of bewilderment.

'I wanted to see my friend, Miss Eve Moneypenny.' 

'Engaged for barely a day and you've already gone philandering? I suppose that's only to be expected, considering your mother's work.'

'I suppose you'd know all about philandering, given how often you've visited my sisters. Tell me, was your wife a child bride? After all, you always move on to the younger girls as soon as they're on the market.' 

The Constable turned purple. Safin gave him a warning look.

'We will talk about this later, Constable. Mister Q, why did you go to Miss Moneypenny?'

'I wanted to give her some of my things.' _Please don't ask what they are._

'What do you mean by that?' the Constable demanded.

_Dammit._ 'Some books, blueprints, and childhood toys.' 

'You must have stolen them!' the Constable crowed triumphantly. 'No servant-'

'My father gave them to me.' 

'What father? Your mother is an immoral woman living on immoral earnings!'

'We will ask Major Boothroyd to corroborate that statement.' Safin interrupted. 'It is well-known that Major Boothroyd contributed to Mister Q's existence. We will now move on to the two gentlemen in the corner. Please state your name, occupation and what you are accused of.'

Maghnus ran his hand through his hair nervously. 'I'm Dean Maghnus, sir, an' I run a stationer's on Palmer Downs. I went to me friend Eric's toyshop to get my son's birthday present. I got me boy a toy castle an' soldiers, sir, an' a big unwieldy thing it was. Eric 'elped me carry it home. We crossed through the alley in Houghton Hall cos I wanted to give me boy 'is present quicker, but an under-constable arrested us because we were carryin' a suspicious package.'

'That's the Lord's honest truth. We don't 'av a lick of magic, sir, we can't kill the poor girls. The alley lets anybody in so long as yer sing somethin' while crossin', sir.' Eric Coghlan nodded empathically.

'I see.' The Viceroy approached the Smarmy Bastard and undid his blindfold, revealing large grey eyes. 'And what about you, Lord Wilbridge, son of the Viscount of Wilbridge?' 

Smarmy Bastard sneered. 'I was slumming in Crimson Street. There was a woman I thought was a tart, but I was mistaken. She made a great hullabaloo of it, and her husband decided to avenge her honour. He was about to bludgeon me with a beer bottle. There was a puddle, and I used the water it contained as ice shards to protect myself. The Constable, Lord knows what he was doing there, arrested me, and here I am.'

'The ice shards slashed the husband's face badly, sir,' the Constable said. 'Part of his nose was gone.'

'It was dark. I was aiming for his hand, but he moved. It was his own fault.' Smarmy Bastard defended himself.

'And the sailor?' Safin asked the Constable, ignoring the peer in the cell.

'He was engaged in a very one-sided street fight, sir.'

'Then it seems only Wilbridge and the sailor need to be in the cell. Mr Maghnus, Mr Coghlan, you are free to go.' The two men burst out of the cell with sighs of relief. 'Your can collect your things at the second door on the right side of the hallway.'

'And I?' Smarmy Bastard snapped. 'Why am I still in this cell? I was merely defending myself against the brute.'

'True, but the damage you did can be considered excessive.' Safin held his hand up to stymy the peer's protests. 'It is for the courts to decide. For now, you will remain in this cell until further developments.'

'Q, my carriage is outside. I'm afraid you must go home alone―I have a lot to discuss with the Constable.' the Viceroy smiled at him.

'I-yes, Madam will be expecting me home by now.' What time was it? The day was cloudy, and the feeble sunlight was no help in determining the hour.

'She won't be angry at you. I sent my coachman over with a note as soon as I heard. She was on the whole very understanding about the situation.'

Q tried not to laugh. Anastasia was undoubtedly enraged. 'I'll be going now. Goodbye, Safin.'

'Goodbye, poppet.' The Viceroy's face seemed to _shift_. Q stared at him, puzzled. Then Safin's words sank in and he turned scarlet. He hurried out of the holding cell, feeling his neck burn from the stares of his noble cellmate and the Constable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally posted an earlier draft of this chapter. Sorry about that.
> 
> Ülke means Turkey. It's Turkish for country. Éirennach is Gaelic for Irish. Mind you, these names come from online translators, so I don't know how accurate they are.
> 
> The line of sight and restrained hands ideas I get from Six of Crows. The iron I take from fae stories.
> 
> Shopkeepers were considered middle-class. The Victorians considered the upper-class to be members of the gentry, and peers. Though later on as wealth from business and manufacturing grew, the richest men joined the class, but were considered lower upper class. Basically, the order goes royals, nobility, landowning gentry, and the wealthiest businessmen. Class wasn't divided just by money, but also birth and jobs. You can have a skilled labourer who earns £120 a year and a beginning clerk who earns £90, but the clerk is middle class because he doesn't do manual labour. Similarly, a country squire who earns £1000 a year is of higher standing than a businessman who earns £30 000 a year. By the late 19th century-20th century many upper class people were dabbling in business as agriculture slumped, which reduced the income of many landholders.
> 
> Upper class Victorians liked to go to poorer places to see what the people and entertainments are like. This seemed tacky, but it also made them see how poor people lived. Back then the rich and poor were so separated culturally(but not geographically) that the rich had no idea how the poor lived. Slumming helped reduce class barriers and reshaped gender relations round the end of the 19th century


	6. Chapter 6

Safin's coachman was a plain-looking creature called Tom Abbott. He was the ideal servant: a smartly attired machine whose face was always set in attentive inquiry, and completely invisible when not required to serve. He barely blinked when Q went to the back door even though he was dropped off at the front door. The only change in his subservient demeanour came when Q thanked him. Abbott gaped, before rallying himself and replying 'You are very welcome, Mr Q.'

Q remembered too late that masters didn't thank servants, but he couldn't do anything about it now. He opened the kitchen door, which swung open soundlessly. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a red-haired figure bent over the range. His first thought was _intruder_. His second thought was _is she scrubbing the grate?_ The figure straightened and turned to him, and Q realised the intruder was in fact Maude. 

'Q! Thank the Lord of All Saints!' She tossed her washcloth aside and ran to him. His youngest sister skidded to a stop when he recoiled away from her. 

'Ah. Right. Sorry about that.' She moved a few steps backward. 'Are you alright?'

He nodded. His fingers were clutching Rosalind's quilt in a white-knuckled grip. 'Just dirty. And tired.' And terrified. Anastasia would—never mind. Best not to think of what she would do.

'Mother is waiting in the blue drawing room,' she said. 

Q blinked in surprise. 'I would have thought she'd be in the red sitting room.' It was where men in a more vicious mood came for their satisfaction. Two girls were rotated in and out on a biweekly basis, except for Orpha, who never went out of this particular reception room.

Maude huffed. 'I thought so too, but she can't hurt you anymore, and using the Bloodroom to scare you would obviously count.'

Q gave her an uncertain smile. He replaced Rosalind's old quilt back on the pile of beddings and said 'Why are you here, Maude? It's breakfast time for you and the ladies upstairs.'

'Mother sent me. She knew you would enter the house through here and not the front door. And for Lord's sake, don't say _that_.'

'Say what?'

'"The ladies upstairs". You sounded like you were describing strangers.'

'I am.' Q only realised how true this was when he said it out loud. 'I don't think I've said a word to you ever since Amaryllis had her debut.'

Maude gave him a Look. 'I know you love sweets. I know you had at least one follower, most likely two, though I don't know how many intrigues you've had. You cried all night when Mother threw your teddy bear away when you were twelve. You were in love with the friend of the lordling the Golden Brat was talking to, and he loved you back, but Mother started accompanying her on her morning walks instead of you, and you never saw him again.' She licked her dry lips. 'I know you paid men favours to help you keep house. I know you had tutors. The blond one's the love of your life, but he quit, and now you're being taught magic by another beauty, one of Alkebulanite descent. There! Not strangers anymore, are we?' Maude tossed her head back proudly. It was the same trait Q, Amaryllis, and Rosalind shared.

'Don't call Amaryllis that,' Q said after a long pause. 'And my father sent the men. No favours were exchanged.'

'Oh. I thought-well.'

'And I did have two followers. As for intrigues, I've only had the one. It's dangerous to have too many of them when you're living in a house like this; it breeds unpleasant assumptions.' He took the washcloth Maude was holding and put it on the counter. 'Is Anastasia...' he trailed off.

Maude took the hint. 'She was furious. She ranted on about her reputation and yours, and how it would damage Amaryllis's prospects.'

'What a surprise. It's always herself and Amaryllis she thinks of, never me, or you, or anyone else.' Q said bitterly.

'You know how she is.' Maude shuffled her feet in a way she hadn't done since she was sixteen. This sudden harshness was a surprise. For as long as she had known her brother, he had been so worn and tired by their mother's abuse that he had no energy left for anger. 

'Q, are you alright?' She asked.

'Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?' 

'It's alright to struggle with the changes.' Maude hesitantly laid a pale hand on Q's shoulder. 'After I was out, things were...difficult. The girls helped me to deal with things. We'd do the same for you.'

Q shrugged off her hand, even though he wanted to turn around and hug her. There were other things to deal with, namely, his furious employer upstairs. 

'We'll talk about this later, Maude,' he said. 'I have to deal with Anastasia.' If he broke now, he'd face Anastasia raw and vulnerable and exposed. He refused to allow her to see him that way.

'We'll be waiting for you upstairs.' Maude gave him a kiss on his cheek. Q closed his eyes, savouring the light touch. He remembered all too well the way his sisters pulled away from him when the touch of men came into their lives. 

'Wish me luck. And for Lord's sake, if you want to black-lead the grate, soak the lead in a saucer of water to soften it first.' He patted her hand and climbed up the back staircase.


	7. Chapter 7

'The Constable is no more,' Mallory said. 

'What did he do?' Nomi asked. 

'It was the bribes, wasn't it?' Eve laughed.

Mallory shook his head. 'The Constable has taken to arresting any citizen who happen to be sorcerers or in magic streets. Safin had enough and sacked him today, never mind how well-connected he is. This is the reason I called you both in early, as we need to review your findings and the information the Constable found.'

'And what information is that? The only reason that mutton-shunter even made it to middle age was sheer dumb luck.'

'True, Nomi. Lady Luck always seems to favour the most undeserving people, doesn't she?' Eve sighed.

'Not always, Miss Moneypenny. Not always.' Mallory's smile held a tinge of uncertainty. This, more than anything else, made the two agents aware something was going on.

'What have you found in connection to Mister Corney, Miss Nomi?' 

'Nothing, sir. The flesh suppliers in Gaul were regular criminals. It was Ellie Ward's bad luck her follower is involved with criminals. There was no connection to sorcery or any of the other victims.' Nomi replied, unconsciously squaring her shoulders as she gave her report.

'I see. And what about Mister Potter, Miss Moneypenny?'

'The same, sir. Nancy Potter's brother is only the errand boy for the "transport firm" used by Nomi's target. He has a tendency to overcharge a penny or two from the clients, certainly, but there was nothing more to it.' 

'But both organizations have been destroyed?'

'The main players are gone, but some of the smaller rats have escaped.' 

'Then there is nothing new to go on.'

Nomi grimaced at the worry in Mallory's eyes. 'I take it the Constable has given us no useful information?'

'He claimed that the Maiden Stealer, as the media had dubbed our resident killer, was a student of sorcery experimenting on death magic. How he came to that conclusion I shall never know. Naturally, this has created a great deal of public anxiety, and sorcerers are being scrutinised. So far there has been no violence, but it's only a matter of time before it happens.' 

'I would have thought people would lose interest, not turn this case into another Jack the Ripper,' Eve said. 

'It's sorcery,' Nomi pointed out. 'The victims may be poor, but when it comes to our friends of tenuous position-' She shrugged. 

'Are you both _positive_ you found no further leads?' Mallory brought them back to the matter at hand. 'When your missions crossed so unexpectedly, I thought there was something.'

Nomi's hands, clad in yellow kid gloves, made an expansive gesture. Lips pursed, Eve shook her head.

'Then we have no other choice but to reexamine the victims' lives. Hopefully something will turn up.'

'Safin wouldn't be pleased.' Nomi murmured. Her head was tilted to the side in thought. Something had been bothering her, something important, and it had to do with the mission...

'How goes the investigation on him, sir? Is he as perfect a successor as his papers indicated?' Eve leaned forward in interest. Nomi observed the way his brows danced about before settling into confusion. Did Safin do anything earth-shattering while they were away?

'I have news from Mrs Manfield regarding Safin and a mutual friend of you both,' Mallory began.

_Q._ 'What did Safin do? Q means no harm, he's-' Nomi patted Eve's hand.

'Calm down, Eve. The alienists gave Safin glittering marks.' 

'Nomi is correct. There is no need for distress.'

'Yet your face was fit to curdle milk, sir. What happened?' 

'Safin and Major Boothroyd's natural son are affianced.'

Nomi stared. 'I beg your pardon?' 

'I thought Safin was affianced to Amaryllis?' Eve asked.

'He was until yesterday afternoon. Major Boothroyd's natural son came to Safin's office to give him a missive, and came out two hours later arm-in-arm with the esteemed Viceroy. He drove his new intended home, where he then proceeded to have a long argument with the mistress of the house, as told by Mrs Mansfield. The words "breach of promise" and "costs" were bandied about a great deal. Safin signed a contract to pay Anastasia compensation for his former fiancée's wedding gowns and the like, along with all the costs she would incur to give her son suitable things for his new life.'

Eve's lips stretched to an unholy grin. 'I knew he would snap eventually,' she said, 'Granted, I expected him to run away or stab that wretched abbess, but this is just as good a way to spite Anastasia as any.'

'Are we sure he consented? I doubt he has much experience of saying no.' Nomi pointed out. Eve's smile disappeared. 

'Be that as it may, your mutual friend was arrested this morning while he was on the way to visit you, Miss Moneypenny,' said Mallory. He raised a hand to stop Eve's questions. 'He was perfectly fine. He claimed he wanted to deposit his childhood belongings into your possession. I question the truth of that statement, but I recommend that you send him a letter as soon as possible.'

'I will do that, sir.'

'It was too neat,' Nomi said.

'I beg your pardon?' Mallory turned his attention to Nomi. 

'Our missions. Think about it, sir. Two girls have the shadow of criminal activity in their pasts, and the organizations just so happen to intersect. This was deliberate. The killer wanted us to think a crime ring was behind this. They knew we would uncover everything about the girls and that you would send us as this mission is too sensitive for any other agent. They knew our attentions would be focused on the international aspect of the developments; they knew we would focus on destroying the flesh traders and the "shipping firm"-they know how we operate. The killer knows there is something we would see if our attention is turned inwards. Either someone has been leaking information, or the killer is someone high up in the hierarchy.'

An almost silent sigh slipped through Mallory's lips. 'Another leak. Wonderful. I will have to speak to the Viceroy about this.'

'SPECTRE!' Eve blurted out. 'They have connections to SPECTRE. Whatever the killer doesn't want us to see, it's something we would recognise, but Five wouldn't.'

'Dammit!' Mallory looked ready to shoot someone. Eve and Nomi could sympathise. They had dug around for everything related to the shadowy organisation, and yet they were still being haunted by the biggest infiltration to ever occur in history.

Mallory took several deep breaths and got himself under control. Calmly, he said 'We need to do another sweep of our colleagues. It must be done with discretion. In the meantime, I need you both to monitor Anastasia's son.' 

'I am not going to betray his confidence.' 

'I agree with Eve, sir. I refuse to treat him like a mission.' 

'Miss Nomi, Miss Moneypenny, I don't mean for you to make him a mark. The boy has lived his life in the shadows, ironing shoelaces or whatever it is servants do in the house by Comsol harbour. There would be scandal when Society catches wind of it. He would be unfamiliar with the social rituals Safin's circle practice, and inevitably, there would be missteps which would be mocked and gossiped about. I want you to ensure he isn't too scarred by the transition from slavey to Society member.'

'Understood, sir,' Nomi said. 

'Will there be someone sent to predict how well Q would adjust as Safin's lover?' Eve asked. 'I assume we would be disqualified from that role as we are his friends.'

'Trevelyan would be sent to scope the boy and the Viceroy out. Hopefully the boy won't call off the engagement when he realises what it means to be the Viceroy's husband. The last thing we need is Safin getting a _reputation_. Why the man didn't consult us before he proposed is a mystery. He's sensible enough to know marriage is a delicate matter for a man of his position, yet here he is, marrying someone we haven't properly vetted.'

'I suppose Q just swept him off his feet, sir,' Eve said cheerfully. 

Mallory's creased brow showed exactly what he thought about that. It was obvious he thought Q had seduced Safin, and that he disapproved of the match. For her part, while she was happy for Q, Nomi was also working out a plan to smuggle him out of the country if the match truly was forced upon her friend.

Thundering footsteps was heard in the corridor. The door banged open, and the white-haired visage of Major Boothroyd barged into the room. A disapproving Mrs Mansfield was right behind him, and she was giving him a glare that could strip the bark from trees.

'What the hell is this about an _engagement_ , Mallory?' He yelled. 'Why didn't you talk Safin out of it? The match is about as appropriate as a fish being engaged to the moon!'

'Bold words, coming from a man who gave his own son scraps,' Moneypenny said. 

The Major scowled. 'I provided for him as best as I could in the circumstances.'

'Soothing your guilty conscience does not equate to being a provider.' He turned purple at Nomi's words.

'My wife-'

'Blaming her again? How has she not poisoned your morning tea by now?' Eve sniffed.

Carefully keeping annoyance out of his face, Mallory said 'Gentleman, ladies, I understand that this is an awkward topic, but could you kindly discuss it later? Mrs Mansfield clearly has some important intelligence. Major, why don't you wait in the coffee room until I call for you?'

Major Boothroyd stomped back outside.

Mrs Mansfield stopped Eve and Nomi from offering her a seat. 'Stay. This is a highly sensitive matter that could only be investigated by you two.'

'Is this about the recent murders of young women? Or is it about SPECTRE?'

'Both.'

Eve sighed. Nomi stifled a grin as she watched the current M's eyebrows do an admirable jig. Mallory wondered what on earth he had been thinking when he accepted the job.

'What did you find out, Mrs Manfield?' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorians and Edwardians had some odd ideas about class. There is seen to be a duty to live up to your income and do social obligations befitting your class. For example, a famous doctor keeping carriages and horses because he could afford them. He may not need one, if he works from home like many physicians did at the time, but if he didn't it would earn gossip. Saving is prudent, yet among the middle classes leaving the next generation too much is seen as spoiling them and bringing them up in an 'aristocratic' way, which is antithesis to their 'work hard and be respectable' ethos. Inheriting would make them seem like an aristocratic idler whose main job appears to be constant entertaining, something they scorn. 
> 
> Slang:  
> -mutton-shunter: offensive term for a policeman. Came because a big part of their job was to tell sex workers to move on  
> -abbess: madame
> 
> The ironing shoelaces thing I got from Life Below Stairs, an account of life as a domestic worker.


End file.
